


The Smartest Thing To Do

by impertinence



Category: Common Law
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impertinence/pseuds/impertinence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes two mercifully simple cases and one great girl for Wes to lose it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smartest Thing To Do

**Author's Note:**

> angelsaves beta'd this! Plays fast and loose with police procedure, cases, etc.

Travis has only been to Wes's extended stay kill-me-now place a couple times. Travis might only have a trailer, but at least he did the limited decorating. Wes has unpacked his clothes into the dresser in the main room, but that's it. It's almost as depressing as a mental hospital after a murder. Every time Travis goes in, he's itching to leave.

"When're you gonna get a new place?" he says one Monday.

It's morning, and Wes is squinting at one of their reports. Travis is pretty sure he's due for a dressing down, but discussing Wes's living situation is a great way to avoid that. For now.

"I have a place," Wes says. "Arguably, it's nicer than yours. Why did you leave out the part where the perp bit you?"

"You don't have a place. You have a hotel. That's not _having_ , and it's barely a place." Travis snags the report. "Do we have to put that in? It makes me look like a wuss."

"It's more than nice enough, and it's for extended stays. I'm fulfilling the purpose of the business. He was on PCP."

"The purpose of the business is dudes who need a couple weeks, not years. And it's still embarrassing," Travis says. "Just sign off on it, would you?"

Wes stares at him, narrow-eyed. Travis smiles hopefully. "Dr. Ryan appreciates cooperation."

"Fine," Wes says. "But not because of therapy. I don't feel like rewriting it, and it's not like the bite was infected." He eyes Travis's arm like it might start oozing or something.

"You're a peach," Travis says, and turns back to his own work.

It's a day of mostly down time, right up until almost five. Then they get a call, right as Travis is gearing up to leave.

"Man," he says, sighing.

"That's the job." Wes grabs his sunglasses. "Come on, let's go."

A twenty-one-year-old woman, shot once in the head. License identifies her as Maria Lang. She has a restraining order against her boyfriend, James Hampton, who's nowhere to be seen.

"Boyfriend did it," Travis says, looking around the apartment. Signs of a struggle are everywhere.

"We don't know that."

"Yet," Travis says.

They do the usual work at the scene. As they're exiting, Wes says, "So. Boyfriend's mother?"

"Always a good one," Travis says, and they hop into Wes's car.

Twenty minutes later, Travis is doing his least favorite part of the job: talking to the loved ones. "Maria is gone?" James's mother lifts her hand to her mouth. "How? When?"

"We're still working the details out," Wes says. He leans forward, and Travis glances at him. Shoulders hunched, muscles tensed; Wes really isn't good at not looking like an uptight cop.

"Anything you can tell us about where James is will help," Travis says, smiling as reassuringly as he can.

"James wouldn't - he's not -"

"Maria has a restraining order out against him," Wes says. "Did you know anything about that?"

"He didn't kill her."

"Maybe not," Wes says, "but then, he was in her life. He might know who did."

Good spin, Travis thinks. "Anything you can tell us would help."

"He's probably at the shop," Mrs Hampton says after a long pause. "Here, I'll write down the address."

Wes glances over at Travis, the corner of his mouth twitching. Travis glances at Mrs Hampton to make sure she can't see, then smiles quickly.

"Think she's sending us on a wild goose chase?" Travis says as he gets into the car.

"It's worth a look," Wes says. "She did a good job deflecting from all the reasons we have to believe Hampton's the perp."

"If we have to go back with a warrant and search the house, I'll be pissed," Travis says.

"You'll be pissed anyway," Wes says. "You hate when it's the boyfriend."

"I hate when it's anyone."

"And yet, here we are." Wes pulls out into the street.

There are a million things Travis could say to that, but he chooses instead to drum his fingers on the console It's not like he's doing it on purpose to piss Wes off - it's just a nervous habit. It is a perk, though, when Wes says, "Stop that," reaching out and batting at Travis's wrist.

"Am I bothering you, detective?" Travis says, smiling. "Maybe I should switch, you think?" He taps the car door with his other hand.

"I will pull over and dump you on your ass," Wes says.

Travis snorts. "Come on, man. Humor: have you heard of it?"

"You're not funny. You're not even mildly amusing."

"That hurts."

"It was meant to." Wes gets them onto the highway, speeding up a little faster than he really needs to. He'll deny till he's blue in the face that he stress-drives, but Travis knows better.

Travis keeps tapping, though, and Wes doesn't do anything about it except turn the radio on. It's some classic rock station, which neither of them really likes. Travis is pretty sure Wes put it there on purpose. He hums along to Pour Some Sugar On Me, though, doing a dance in his seat that has Wes sighing in obvious disgust.

Wes is ready to murder him by the time they get to the garage. That's good; he's always better when he's pissed off. Travis checks to make sure he's got his gun, then hops out of the car.

"Hello?" he calls, sauntering into the garage. Nothing's obviously amiss, which makes sense; he'll be surprised if Hampton has been here in the past day or two.

"Can I help you?" a very non-garage-guy voice says from behind him.

He whirls around. A woman's standing there, with short, curly hair and engine grease all over her light brown skin, in a tank top and cinched-up capris. Travis smiles. "Why, yes," he says. "Yes, you can."

She raises her eyebrows. "Your car looks fine," she says, nodding to the parking lot. "And if you want my number -"

"I do, in fact," Travis says, taking a step forward.

She raises a wrench. "You can forget about it."

Travis knows a solid put-down when he sees one. "Well, then," he says. "Maybe you can tell me about your buddy James Hampton."

"James?" She snorts. "How about how I had to pick up his shift yesterday?"

Bingo. "Yeah," Travis says. "Thing is, I'm a cop."

"So am I," Wes says, walking into the garage.

"Wes! This is my partner," he says to the woman. "Wes, this is..."

"Laura," the woman says after a long pause.

"Very nice to meet you, Laura," Travis says.

Wes nods. It's short and clipped. "Did you, by any chance, know Maria Lang?"

"James's girl? Sure. She came around sometimes, before they broke up. What's - oh, shit." Laura's eyes widen. "Is she okay?"

"She's dead," Wes says.

"I don't know where James is." Laura turns back to Travis. "I mean, I can tell you about him, but his whole disappearing act...I don't know."

"Why don't we sit down and you can tell me what you know," Travis says.

They learn that James was furious that Maria took out the order on him, that he owns a gun he's shown Laura before, and that he was increasingly agitated in the past few days before not showing up for work the day before. When they're done, Travis says, "Thanks for all your help, really," as Wes marches grimly out of the garage.

"No problem." She wipes a hand on her capris. "Were you serious about the number?"

Travis blinks. This is pretty far outside the game plan, but - "As a heart attack."

"Great," she says, and pulls a pen out of her pocket. She writes her number on his hand, like they're in grade school. But coming from her it's pretty damn charming. "When you're done with this case, call me."

"Oh, I will," Travis says, and goes out to the car.

"I can't believe you," Wes says when he gets in.

"What?"

"She's a witness in our case."

"Which is why I'm not going to call her until Hampton's behind bars."

"Right."

"Come on," Travis says. "She's hot. You noticed how hot she is, right? You're not dead, or off in...Alexland?"

"I noticed," Wes says grimly.

"Good," Travis says. "That's good."

Wes starts the car. After that, they don't talk much.

It takes two days to solve the case - definitely not their most difficult bust. It was James, and they find him holed up at a friend's. Travis doesn't even get to shoot at anyone, which is a real letdown.

The day after the case ends, Travis pulls Laura up in his phone and calls her. He gets the usual brief flash of adrenaline right before she picks up, then smiles into the phone and says, "Laura, hi."

"Travis?"

"Wow. Good call."

"I've got a good memory for voices," Laura says. "We've all had to scramble covering for James, you know."

"You don't sound too broken up about it."

"Shit happens," she says. "I was shocked when you guys came, but after...well."

Travis gets a weird feeling of respect. Not that he doesn't respect the women he goes after, obviously, but this is different. "Want to grab dinner?" he says.

"I'm busy tonight," she says.

Travis likes a confident woman; he didn't even ask about tonight. "How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow I could do," she says. "Do I need to dress up?"

Travis laughs at the threat implicit in her voice. "No, you should be fine," he says. "Just look as great as I plan to."

She snorts. "Sure," she says, and hangs up.

Travis is really, really looking forward to this.

Apparently it shows. "Quit bouncing around in your seat," Wes says the next day in the office. "You're like a five year old, I swear."

"Sorry," Travis says, but he doesn't stop tapping his foot.

A minute later, Wes sighs and puts his pen down. "Okay," he says. "Tell me what's going on."

"Nothing," Travis says.

"It's that woman, isn't it."

"Which woman?"

"You know the one. Big -" Wes makes a gesture that Travis is pretty sure he's supposed to interpret as 'tits', "grease all over her, works in a garage. You know, you could do better. You're a legitimate cop now and everything."

"I'll be legitimately punching you if you keep it up," Travis says. "Anyway, she's hot. We're going out tonight. And after that, you know, we'll see."

Wes stares at him for a minute before saying - or, really, snapping - "Wipe that smirk off your face and get back to work," and jamming his pen into the paper he's writing on like Travis is supposed to think that's productive.

Wes's parting shot of the day is, "Try to finish dinner before you start groping her."

"Not your best," Travis says, and heads out to his car. Wes is staying late; he probably doesn't want to go back to his holding cell just yet. Travis can respect that, as much as he can respect anything about Wes's living situation, which - really, he can't.

He meets Laura at the restaurant, a cozy little Italian place right in the middle of downtown. It's a bitch to find parking, but it's worth it for how she smiles at him and says, "This is a nice place," as Travis sits down.

"I know how to pick 'em," Travis says.

"Uh-huh," she says. "And next time, if you pick a place this hard to get to, there won't be a next time." She smiles up at the waiter. "Could we get your wine list, please?"

Travis is more than a little turned on.

They keep the talk light, mostly. Travis learns that Laura is one of six kids, Catholic - Travis fakes surprise, and luckily she laughs - and has been working with cars since she was a kid. Travis tells her about his police work, mostly skirting around the gory details. "And Wes, well," he says, midway through a story about being assigned to get a dog out of a tree, despite actually being Robbery & Homicide, "he was too much of a tightass to even climb the ladder."

Laura laughs, then says, "I'm not the morbid type, but even I can tell you're not really talking about the work you actually do. Unless all the stories about the various ways Wes is a jerk count."

"Of course they count."

"I don't know that they do," Laura says. "But I get the feeling violent murders are a second date topic." She raises her wine glass, tilting it towards him.

He gets a flash of the habitual not-quite-guilt, because there've only been a few women he's even made it to a second date with. But - her cheeks are flushed, and she's smiling, and as much as Travis wants to get her out of her jeans and tight shirt, he could also stand to keep talking. Maybe there will be a second date, he thinks impulsively.

By the end of the night, they're both not remotely tipsy, but they're talking easily all the same. On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Travis says, "So."

She quirks her eyebrows at him. It reminds him of - he's not sure, actually. "Planning on going somewhere impressive with that?"

"I could be," Travis says. "I definitely could be."

She waits.

"...actually, I was going to be smooth," Travis says. "You know, ask you about coffee."

"I'm not a fan," she says.

Damn, shot down. "Well, thanks, then. It was a great night."

She laughs outright. "Wow," she says. "I was going to say, but fucking you sounds good, so let's go."

It's Travis's turn to laugh. "Let's," he says. "Hang on, here's my phone. Put your address in."

That's how they wind up with her pressed up against her door, Travis kissing her, one hand on her thigh. He kind of hates that she's a jeans girl right now, because all he wants to do is slide his hand up and see just how wet she is. But it's good this way, with her grinding against him, kissing him just about as hard as he's ever been kissed.

When he fucks her, it's great, and she's so vocal that it's easy, too. He comes just slowly enough for it to not be embarrassing, then gets her off once - and then again, just for the hell of it.

"Damn," she says when he flops to her side. "You know how to show a girl a good time."

"I try," he says.

She sits up. "You should go soon, huh?"

He glances at her. "Why, got another hot date?"

"Hardly," she says. "But you seem like the type to want to go pretty quickly." She shrugs. "I'm not going to freak out."

Travis thinks, just then, that he could see them going on a third date, too. "Awesome," he says. He presses her back into the bed and kisses her for awhile, then pulls back and says, "I'll call you."

"You'd better." She flops back down. "You know where the door is."

Travis checks his phone as he starts his car, thinking - he doesn't know, actually. Wes never texts him when he knows Travis is getting laid, even though Travis can practically feel his judgment across town.

There's nothing there. Of course. Travis tucks his phone back into his pocket and starts his car.

 

"Christ," Wes says when he sees him the next day. "Try to keep the smugness down to a minimum, would you?"

"Now, why would I do that, Wes?" Travis takes out his phone. Laura would probably appreciate a text about Wes. Travis really sold her on what a pain in the ass he is.

"Oh my God," Wes says. "You're texting her?"

"Of course not." Travis hits the home screen, then tucks his phone away. It was a stupid idea, anyway. "What, you're serious? No."

"Unless you've suddenly decided to develop sexual affection for electronics, yes, you were texting her. Or another woman. Have you gone insane?"

"And here I thought this is what you wanted me to do all along," Travis says.

"Of course," Wes says. He clicks around on his computer long enough that Travis hopes the subject might be dropped, but then he adds, "So what's her deal, anyway? Does she have something on your family?"

"Very funny," Travis says. "She's hot, nice, and funny."

"So are all the other women you've...'dated' really isn't the term."

"Fucked," Travis says. "You pussy. And so? Maybe I'm changing my stripes."

Wes lets his sarcastic expression do the talking for him. After that, they go back to not talking.

They get a call around noon. A double homicide, looks like it could be a murder-suicide. "Fuck," Travis says when he sees the people. One of them's a kid. It would be.

"You can wait outside."

It's kind of a nice gesture, really, even wrapped up in sarcastic condescension. "Who's going to hold back your hair when you puke, baby?" Travis says, snapping his gloves on.

They do all the preliminary work, but then it's time for them to go to therapy; there were no witnesses, as far as they know, so they don't even have a reason to stick around. Travis props his feet up on the dash in Wes's car, ignoring Wes's, "Don't do that," and tries to think about anything except the dead kid on the way to therapy. Even thinking about his and Wes's partnership is easier.

"Today," Dr. Ryan says after they segue into the bullshit constructed-learning part of the appointment, "we're going to talk about something that I think will shed quite a bit of light on each other's partners."

"Goody," Wes mutters under his breath.

Dr. Ryan has learned, by now, not to react to Wes. It's kind of sad, because she almost always shoots him down, in a calm way. Travis likes seeing it. "In any partnership, having a life outside one another is almost as important as being attentive to each other. I'd like to go around the room and talk about what everyone does independent of their partners."

She raises her eyebrows at Wes and Travis.

"Why is it that when you say 'around the room', you always mean 'starting with Wes and Travis'?" Wes says.

There's the typical ripple from the group that means some people don't appreciate Wes's rapier wit. Travis sympathizes. "Wes is just sensitive," Travis says, throwing everyone else a grin. "See, his longest-lasting current relationship is with his ex's grass, and even that's starting to look pretty tentative."

"I'm sure you're very jealous," Wes says. "Oh, wait, you can't fuck grass. Never mind."

"Detectives," Dr. Ryan says.

There's enough of a warning there that Travis sits up a little straighter. He's still surprised, though, when Wes says, "Well, everyone should be congratulating Travis. He's beginning a relationship that might end up resembling an adults." Wes applauds sarcastically, three slow claps. "Congratulations to him."

"Really." Dr. Ryan focuses on Travis. "That's very good, Travis. Why don't you tell us about it?"

"It's nothing," Travis says. Why can't they get a conveniently-timed call? This murder-suicide case really is the worst. "Just, you know, met a girl, liked her."

"She's very pretty," Wes says. "For a likely high school dropout who spends all of her time elbows-deep in car grease."

"Ouch," Marty says.

"For someone who professes to be proud of Travis, you don't sound very pleased," Dr. Ryan says. "Do you think he could do better?"

"Travis? Of course not."

"Then perhaps you're a bit..." Dr. Ryan looks over at Travis. "Resentful of the time Travis is spending with this woman."

"We don't associate outside of work." Wes sounds downright hostile now. Travis is _definitely_ going to have to keep this thing with Laura up. "I don't care what he does with his time, as long as he gets into the office on time."

"It's natural to be bothered by your partner taking time for himself," Dr. Ryan says. "Healthy, no, but very natural, and something we can all help each other get past."

"Really, I'm happy with it," Wes says. "Travis is less of a pain when he's getting laid."

Travis shrugs. He's not going to argue that one.

"I see," Dr. Ryan says. Then finally, mercifully, she looks at another couple. "And you, David?"

When the meeting finally lets out, Travis holds back until they get into Wes's car. Before he has a chance to fuck with Wes, though, Wes says, "Should I drive you home?"

"Only if you want to pick me up in the morning."

Wes purses his lips. It's kind of a distracting motion, mostly because it makes his mouth look like it barely exists. "It's not a problem."

"All right, yeah, then," Travis says.

They don't talk much on the way back. Travis spends half the ride thinking of ways to fuck with Wes, and the other half thinking about how much he'd enjoy getting Wes to be pissed enough to try to hit him again. Fine, Wes pulling his gun was - Travis isn't going to think about that. But when Wes raises his fist, that's an adrenaline rush Travis enjoys.

He wanders around the trailer for a minute when he gets back home, going to the kitchen area then back to his bedroom a couple of times before he sighs and gets undressed. He puts his phone on the side table, accessible if someone suddenly turns over some evidence on the murder-suicide, then leans back against the wall, running his hand over his dick.

The thing is, this whole thing with Wes: he's thought about it. Hell, it was the first thing he thought of when he started working with Wes, how much he wanted to fuck the tightass-edness out of the guy. But Wes had been married, and Travis didn't fuck with married guys. Realistically, back then and now, he hardly ever fucks with guys at all.

Wes was on edge today, though, and now that he's alone Travis can enjoy thinking about it. Pushing Wes up against a wall, kissing him, jamming a leg between Wes's so that Wes arches against him, desperate to get off. Travis squirts some lotion on his hand and strokes himself slowly, thinking about it: dropping to his knees right there, blowing Wes, finally getting control over Wes's reactions and using that control to completely fuck him up.

He focuses on Wes's eyes going all muddled, his expression going slack, how good it would feel when Wes started jerking him off, technically precise but sloppy from orgasm all the same. Travis is pretty sure it wouldn't take long. Actually jerking himself off while thinking about it definitely doesn't.

After, he cleans up and goes to watch some TV. It's easy to stop thinking about fucking Wes as abruptly as he started. Whatever else you can say about him and his general mental state, Travis is good at compartmentalizing.

He ends up texting Laura around nine, just checking to see if she wants to go to dinner the next day. They set up a date at a steakhouse, and then Travis decides to go to bed early.

He's asleep before ten. It's nice.

"You're seeing Laura again, aren't you," is how Wes greets him when Travis climbs into his car.

"Your obsession with my love life is creepy," Travis says. "Did you not listen to Dr. Ryan at all?"

"Of course I listened," Wes says. "I always listen."

"Liar."

"I never said I agree with her, or think her advice is legitimate," Wes says. "But I do listen."

Travis snorts. "Right."

They get into work early enough that hardly anyone else is there. Wes goes out on a niceness limb and brings Travis coffee. Travis pretends to swoon from surprise, and then they get down to business trying to piece the case together.

"If it's just a murder-suicide..." Wes says.

"Then we should close the case," Travis says. "I know."

"You don't think it is."

"I think there are some ambiguities."

"Such as?"

"Where'd he get the gun? Why'd he kill himself? No priors, no mental illness." Travis shakes his head. "It doesn't add up."

Wes leans in so that his head is close enough to Travis's that Travis feels the need to move away. For a second - just a split second - he thinks about the fantasies he was fucking around with last night.

No. No way. Not at work, not _ever_. Travis shakes his head, then realizes he was spacing out. "What now?"

Wes sighs. "Do you want to go see if forensics has anything on the gun?"

"Sure," Travis says.

Who knows; maybe they'll get lucky, get a break, and Travis can stop thinking about things that aren't going to happen.

Forensics actually does have information on the gun. It's registered to Gerald S. Daleson, a name that's way too big for the skanky bit of trailer trash they unearth when they run the name through the database.

"Damn," Travis says. "Think we'll find a meth lab, too?"

"It's distinctly likely," Wes says. "What do you say we go to pay him a visit?"

"Best idea you've had all day," Travis says, and they head out.

Gerald S. Daleson is actually home, if his truck is any indication. For values of "home" that equal "Airstream on the edge of a junkyard."

"Can you really judge him?" Wes says as they approach the door. "Considering your current living situation."

"Your entire existence judges him, and you live in a halfway house for wayward saps who can't get over their shit," Travis says. He knocks on the door before Wes has a chance to retort; he wants to let that one just sit there.

"What do you want?" Gerald says when he opens the door.

"We just want to talk to you," Travis says. When Gerald's eyes widen and he starts scooting away, Travis adds, "Or shoot you, whichever works," and pulls out his gun.

"Travis," Wes snaps. He shoves Travis off the Airstream steps, taking a step forward. "Why don't you let us in," Wes says. "It'll be easier that way."

"I - fine," Gerald says. He just his chin out. "I didn't do anything, anyway."

Travis seriously, seriously doubts that.

Five minutes later, they know that Gerald doesn't have an alibi and claims he never bought the gun. "Thank you, God," Travis says. "Hey, buddy, you're under arrest."

"I didn't do anything!" Gerald says.

"Sure, and I had a stable home life growing up," Travis says. "Hands behind your back."

An hour later, Gerald's in a holding cell and Wes is frowning.

"What?" Travis says. "Seriously, what?"

"Nothing," Wes says. "Just a bad feeling."

"You're not one to go by your gut."

"Because superstitions are idiotic," Wes says. "If I have a bad feeling, that's my subconscious trying to remind me of something I've overlooked. That's it."

"Right," Travis says. "Okay, fine, let's question him and get going. I've got a hot date tonight."

"As I'm well aware," Wes says.

Twenty minutes later, forensics have fingerprints for them: they're Gerald's. Wes gets a grimly satisfied look on his face and they go into the room, Travis and then Wes. "Sorry about the whole threatening to shoot you in the face thing," Travis says. "It's a bad habit of mine."

"Shooting, not threatening," Wes says. He sits down opposite Gerald. "You're in a lot of trouble."

"I didn't do anything," Gerald says sullenly.

"We have your fingerprints, and it's your gun," Travis says. "A confession would really help. For starters, then maybe you'll walk when you're eighty, instead of being buried when we turn up more evidence you left behind."

"Are you calling him a dumbass, Travis? He's calling you a dumbass." Wes leans forward. "I happen to agree."

Gerald glares at them.

"Phone records," Travis says. "Surveillance cameras, neighbor interviews - we'll put together a case that'll blow your mind."

"You can only hold me for twenty-four hours," Gerald says. "I've been arrested before."

"That's more than enough time to book you," Travis says. "Call me an idiot -"

"He is an idiot, between you and me."

"Thank you, Wes. _Call me an idiot_ , but I'll bet almost anything we'll be able to put together some phone records that prove you two've had contact. After that, with the other evidence...juries don't like dead little girls, Gerald."

"I promise you, they don't," Wes says. "So, Gerald, why don't you cooperate with us."

"...it wasn't my choice," Gerald says. "It wasn't." He licks his lips. Travis is suddenly overwhelmed with hatred, to the point where he's ready to deck the guy. Wes's hand on his wrist is a shock, but it also brings him back into himself.

"Why don't you explain yourself, before my partner here takes it upon himself to establish his punitive abilities," Wes says.

"I'm a dealer," Gerald says. "Okay? I know I don't look like the type, but I am."

Travis isn't even touching the editorial parts of that comment. "Right," he says. "Let me guess: the deceased Mr. Jenkins didn't pay you and your partners on time."

"Partner," Gerald says. "But - Jason told me it wasn't a big deal. I didn't shoot him, I swear, I would never. Jason said we'd find another way to get the money."

"He didn't have his wallet on him," Wes says.

"Jesus," Travis says. What a pair of dumbasses. "How about you tell me what you deal and how Jason got your gun, where Jason lives, and what his favorite haunts are. Then _maybe_ you get off as an accessory."

He must look even more pissed than he sounds - or maybe it's that Wes also looks, well, murderous. Either way, they get the information, and by five-thirty they've struck out at Jason's home and both his favorite hangout spots.

"I have to go," Travis says. "We should be heading out by eight tomorrow."

"We'll find him," Wes says.

He says it in that grim way that means he's trying to reassure himself as much as anything else. "Obviously," Travis says. "All right, later."

"Later," Wes says.

He sounds a little weird, but Travis figures it's the case, and leaves without looking back. The drive to the steakhouse is way easier than the Italian place, even with traffic. He makes it about twenty minutes early and texts Laura to let her know he's there, settling into his seat.

It's habit to check the place out, note his exits. He's in a booth against the wall, which is nice. There's a guy sitting alone, a few couples, and a group on the far side of the room. None of them look too threatening, though the skinny white guy, alone and wearing a suit, might be getting stood up. Travis feels kind of bad for him, especially when Laura comes in and Travis gets to stand up and kiss her.

"Hello to you too," Laura says, smiling.

"Miss me?"

"Obviously," Laura says. "How's work?"

"Work," Travis says. He hesitates, then adds, "Working a murder-suicide. Messy stuff."

"Ah," she says. "I'm working on a Benz. Considerably less messy, though considering how rich its owner is, I'd say it's almost as risky."

Travis laughs, and they keep talking until their food is brought. "Delicious," Laura says.

Travis is starving. As always when he and Wes are running around on a case, he's forgotten about eating in favor of other shit. He takes an almost-impolitely large bite, then nods at Laura.

He's taking a swig of his soda when the skinny white kid turns around, looks directly at him, and pulls out a gun.

"Ah, fuck," Travis says. "Laura! Get down!"

Laura hits the floor, thank God, because Travis barely has his gun pulled when the shooting starts.

Shit, he thinks as he dives behind a table, pushing it over in a hurry. Shit, shit. "Let me guess," he yells over the screaming. "You're Jason."

The kid hasn't even grabbed anyone to hold hostage. "Come out, cop," he yells. "I've been following you all day, I'll do you like I did the others."

That's convenient. Travis really hopes he doesn't die before they can use that. "How about you drop your gun," Travis says, leaning up just in time to let a couple shots loose, then ducking down again.

"How about you suck my -"

"I don't think so," Wes says, and Travis hears the dull thunk of something hard on a skull.

When he looks up, the kid's knocked out, and Wes is efficiently tying his wrists. Laura's sitting up, staring at Wes with wide eyes, and -

"Fuck," Travis says. "You fucking _followed_ me?"

"Of course I did," Wes says. "I saw this kid following you on the way out of the station."

"Bullshit," Travis says. "You're obsessed, you fucking -"

"Travis?" Laura says.

Travis turns. "Shit, I'm sorry."

"I think..." Laura looks at Jason, then up at Travis. "This isn't going to work out."

"This? Oh, this hardly ever happens." Travis tries for a smile. "It definitely won't happen on the third date."

"I got our check," Laura says, nodding to some cash on the table. "I'll see you around, okay?" She leaves.

Travis looks at Wes. Wes looks back.

Travis wants to fucking murder him. Instead, he says, "Let's get him to the station."

Travis waits until they've booked him and are walking through the abandoned rows of cubicles to grab Wes, slam him against the wall, and punch him.

Wes reacts instantly. Travis is expecting a punch so much that when Wes grabs him, pulls him in, and kisses him, it's a shock that feels almost like being hit.

He pushes away almost right away. "What the fuck, man?"

Wes shrugs. His eyes are bright, and he looks - honestly, Travis thinks, he looks a little crazy. Travis is a little worried that his usual control is nowhere to be seen, replaced by the heavy breathing and darting eyes Travis is used to associating with Wes punching him.

Or pulling his gun on him, _fuck_.

"Are you having some kind of breakdown?" Travis says.

Wes shrugs again, then leans in and kisses Travis again.

Right. Okay. Travis thinks, for a second, about pushing Wes away and pretending this never happened. But shit, he can feel Wes relaxing incrementally, and this is...

No one's around. They don't have to talk about it later. Wes definitely will not be expecting a call the next day.

Travis kisses back.

At first they're just fighting with the kissing, biting each other's lips and kissing so aggressively that Travis is kind of surprised he's into it. But then Wes backs off a little, his kisses getting more technical, and that gives Travis the freedom to think, fuck it, and push his hand into Wes's pants.

Wes groans against Travis's mouth, but he doesn't push Travis away. He spreads his legs a little more and pushes up against Travis's hand. Travis uses his other hand to fumble Wes's fly open, then gets his underwear down and his dick out. He spits on his hand, but Wes mumbles, "Go on, I don't care," which probably shouldn't be hot but really, really is.

Travis flashes back to the fantasy he has of being on his knees for Wes, but right now he doesn't have the patience for that. He jerks Wes off, rocking his hips against Wes's until Wes gets the point and pulls Travis's pants down for him, jerking him off, too. They stay like that, leaning into each other, trading messy kisses and jerking each other off until finally Wes lets out this choked-off little groan and comes all over Travis's hand.

It's pretty gross, but Travis doesn't care. He fists his clean hand in Wes's shirt and hauls him in, pressing them together so Wes's hand is trapped on Travis's dick. Wes bites Travis's lower lip, harder than is remotely comfortable, and Travis comes so hard his head spins.

When he comes to, Wes is looking at him with a weird expression on his face, equal parts annoyance and - Travis has no idea. "Let's clean up," Wes says after a minute of staring at each other like idiots.

It jolts Travis back to awareness. "Right," he says, and grabs some Kleenex from the nearest desk, passing some to Wes. They clean up together, then wrap the tissues up in more tissues and throw them away.

Travis doesn't want to walk out with Wes, but insisting on hanging around would be weird. So they walk out to the parking lot together, and then Travis says, "So."

Wes swallows. "That - it's not a bad thing to let off steam."

"Am I hearing this?" Travis says before he has a chance to think it over. "Are you seriously saying you want to, to -"

"I was married," Wes says dryly. "I've had sex. Angry sex, even."

Right. "Right," Travis says. "Okay. So we'll - yeah." He shakes his head. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, because he doesn't want to figure out the bounds of their relationship or negotiate this aspect of their partnership or all the things he can practically hear Dr. Ryan saying pointedly.

"Definitely," Wes says quickly. He doesn't jog to his car, but it's a near thing.

Travis thinks, as he gets into his car, that he might... hold off on picking up another girl. For now.

Just for now, though.


End file.
